The Icebound Land

32

H ALT AND H ORACE WEREN'T SURPRISED WHEN, THE EVENING following the one-sided combat, the sergeant of the guards told them that the lord Deparnieux expected their company in the dining hall that night.

It was a command, not an invitation, and Halt felt no need to pretend that it was anything else. He made no acknowledgment of the sergeant's message, but merely turned away to gaze out the tower window. The sergeant seemed unconcerned by this. He turned and resumed his post at the top of the spiraling staircase that led to the dining hall. He had passed on the message. The foreigners had heard it.

That evening, they bathed, dressed and walked together down the spiral staircase to the lower floors of the castle, their boot heels ringing on the flagstones as they went. They had spent the latter part of the afternoon discussing their plan of action for the night and Horace was eager to put it into effect. As they reached the three-meter-high double doors to the dining hall, Halt put a hand on his arm and stopped him. He could see the impatience on the young man's face. They had been cooped up here for weeks now, listening to Deparnieux's sneering, veiled insults and watching his savagely cruel treatment of his staff. The incidents with the cook and the young knight were only two of many. Halt knew that Horace, with the impatience of all young men, was keen to see Deparnieux given his comeuppance. He also knew that the plan they had agreed on would depend on patience and proper timing.

Halt had realized that Deparnieux's need to appear invincible to his men was a weakness they could exploit. Deparnieux himself had created a situation where he was forced to accept any challenge that might be issued, so long as it was made before witnesses. There could be no carping or quibbling on the warlord's part. If he appeared to show fear, or reluctance to accept a challenge, it would be the beginning of a long, downward spiral. Now, as they stopped, Halt met Horace's eager, anticipatory gaze with his own-steady, patient and calculating.

"Remember," he said, "nothing until I give you the signal."

Horace nodded. His cheeks were slightly flushed with excitement.

"I understand," he said, holding in his eagerness with some difficulty. He felt the Ranger's hand on his arm, realized those steady eyes were still on his. He took three deep breaths to steady his pulse, then nodded again, this time more deliberately.

"I do understand, Halt," he said again. He met the Ranger's gaze this time, holding it with his own. "I won't spoil things," he assured his friend. "We've waited too long for this moment and I'm aware of it. Don't worry."

Halt studied him for another long moment. Then, satisfied with the unspoken message he saw in the boy's eyes, he nodded and released his arm. He shoved the double doors back so that they crashed against the wall on either side. Together, Horace and Halt marched into the dining hall to where Deparnieux waited for them.

The meal they were served was another disappointing example of the much-vaunted Gallic cuisine. To Halt's taste, the dishes placed before them depended far too much on a rich and slightly sickly combination of too much cream and an excess of garlic. He ate sparingly, noticing, however, that Horace, with a young man's appetite, wolfed down every morsel that was placed before him.

Throughout the meal, the warlord kept up a constant stream of sarcasm, referring to the clumsiness and stupidity of his own serving staff and to the inept display made by the unknown knight the day before. As was their custom, Halt drank wine with the meal, while Horace contented himself with water. As they had finished eating the overrich, heavy food, servants brought jugs of coffee to the table.

This, Halt had to admit, was one thing the Galls did with great skill. Their coffee was ambrosia, far better than any he had ever tasted in Araluen. He sipped appreciatively at the fragrant, hot drink, looking over the rim of his cup to where Deparnieux regarded him and Horace with his usual, disdainful smile.

By now, the Gallic knight had come to a decision about Halt. There was, he believed, nothing to fear from the gray-bearded foreigner.

Obviously, the man had some skill with a bow. And he probably had skills in woodcraft and stalking as well. But as for his original fears that Halt might have some arcane skills as a sorcerer, he felt comfortable that he had been mistaken.

Now that he felt it was safe to do so, Deparnieux could not resist the temptation to berate Halt with sneers and insults even more than before. The fact that he had been wary of the bearded man for some time merely served to redouble his efforts to discomfort him. The warlord enjoyed toying with people. He loved to hold people helpless, loved to see them suffer or rage impotently under the scourge of his sarcastic tongue.

And, as his contempt for Halt grew, so too did his total dismissal of Horace. Each time the three of them dined together like this, he waited expectantly for the moment when he could brusquely dismiss the muscular young man and send him, cheeks flaming with rage and embarrassment, back to the tower. Now, he judged, it was time to do so once more. He tilted his heavy chair back on its hind legs, draining the silver goblet that he held in his left hand. He waved the other hand disdainfully in the boy's direction.

"Leave us, boy," he commanded, refusing to even look at Horace. He felt a distinct thrill of pleasure when the boy, after a slight pause, and a quick glance at his companion, stood slowly and replied with one word.

"No."

The word hung in the air between them. Deparnieux exulted in the boy's rebellion, but he allowed no sign to show on his face. Instead, he affected a heavy frown of apparent displeasure. He turned slowly to face the youth. He could see Horace's breath coming faster as the adrenaline surged through his veins, now that this vital moment had finally arrived.

"No?" Deparnieux repeated, as if he could not believe what he was hearing. "I am the lord of this castle, and my word here is law. My pleasure is the command of all others. You do me the discourtesy of telling me no in my own castle?"

"The time is past when your word is to be obeyed without question," Horace replied carefully, frowning as he strove to make sure he stayed to the exact wording Halt had laid out. "You have forfeited your right to obedience by your unchivalrous actions."

Deparnieux still maintained a pretense of displeasure. "You challenge my right to command in my own fief?"

Horace hesitated once more, making sure he phrased his reply exactly. As Halt had told him, accuracy now was of paramount importance. In fact, as Horace realized only too well, it was a matter of life and death.

"It's time that right was challenged," he replied, after a pause.

Deparnieux, allowing a wolfish smile to show on his dark features, now rose from his seat, leaning forward over the table, resting both hands on the bare wood surface.

"So you challenge me?" he asked, the pleasure in his voice all too obvious. Horace, however, made an uncertain gesture.

"Before any challenge is issued, I would demand that you respect it," he said, and the warlord frowned slightly.

"Respect it?" he repeated. "What do you mean, you whining pup?"

Horace shook his head doggedly, dismissing the insult.

"I want an undertaking that you will abide by the terms of the challenge. And I want it made before your own men."

"Oh, you do, do you?" Now the hint of anger in Deparnieux's voice wasn't assumed. It was real. He could see where the boy was going.

"I think," Halt interrupted quietly, "that the boy feels you rule by fear, Lord Deparnieux," he said. The Gall turned to face him.

"And what is that to either of you, bowman?" he asked, although he thought he already knew.

Halt shrugged, then replied casually, "Your men are with you because of your reputation as a warrior. I believe Horace would prefer to see the challenge issued and accepted before your men."

Deparnieux frowned. With the challenge more or less issued in front of some of his men already, he knew he had no choice but to comply. A warlord who even seemed to show fear of a sixteen-year-old youth would find little respect from the men he commanded, even if he were to win the resultant battle.

"You feel I am afraid of this boy's challenge?" he asked sarcastically. Halt held up a cautioning hand.

"No challenge has been issued:yet," he said. "We're merely concerned to see that you have the courage to honor any challenge that might eventuate."

Deparnieux snorted in disgust at the Ranger's careful words. "I can see your true calling now, bowman," he replied. "I thought you might be a sorcerer. I see now you are no more than a grubby lawyer, bickering over words."

Halt smiled thinly and inclined his head slightly. He made no other reply and the silence stretched between them. Deparnieux glanced quickly at the two sentries who stood inside the large double doors of the dining hall. Their faces betrayed their interest in the scene being played out. The details would spread throughout the castle within the hour if he were to refuse the challenge now, or try to gain any unfair advantage over the boy. His men had little love for him and he knew that, should he not treat the challenge fairly, he would begin to lose them. Not immediately, perhaps, but gradually, by ones and twos as they deserted his banner and flocked to his enemies. And Deparnieux had all too many enemies.

He glared at the boy now. He had no doubt whatsoever that he could best Horace in a fair fight. But he resented the fact that he had been manipulated into this position. In Chateau Montsombre, it was Deparnieux who preferred to do the manipulating. He forced a smile and tried to look as if he were bored with the entire affair.

"Very well," he said, in a careless tone, "if this is what you wish, I will abide by the terms of the challenge."

"And you give that undertaking in front of your own men here?"

Horace said quickly, and the warlord scowled at him, abandoning any pretense that he didn't dislike the quibbling boy and his bearded companion.

"Yes," he spat at them. "If I must spell it out to please you, I guarantee my acceptance, in front of my men."

Horace heaved a large sigh of relief. "Then," he said, beginning to tug one of his gloves free from where it was tucked securely into his belt, "the challenge may be issued. The combat will take place in two weeks' time."

"Agreed," Deparnieux replied.

"On the grassed field before Chateau Montsombre:"

"Agreed." The word was almost spat out.

":in view of your own men and the other people of the castle:"

"Agreed."

":and it shall be mortal combat." Horace's voice hesitated slightly over the phrase, but he glanced quickly at Halt and the Ranger nodded slightly to give him courage. And now the smile returned to the warlord's lips, thin and bitter and savage.

"Agreed," he said again. Yet this time, the word was almost purred. "Now get on with it, boy, before you lose your courage and wet your pants."

Horace cocked his head at the warlord and, for the first time, felt in control of the situation.

"What a thoroughly unpleasant piece of work you are, Deparnieux," he said softly, and the black knight leaned forward across the table, thrusting his chin out for the ritual blow with a glove that would issue the challenge and make the entire event irrevocable.

"Frightened, boy?" He sneered, and then flinched as a glove slapped stingingly across his cheek.

Not that the pain made him flinch. Rather, it was the unexpectedness of it all. For the boy across the table hadn't moved.

Instead, the bearded, grizzled bowman had come to his feet with a speed and agility that left the warlord no time to react, and struck him across the face with the glove that he had held under the table for the past few minutes.

"Then I challenge you, Deparnieux," the Ranger said. And for a few seconds the warlord felt a surge of uncertainty as he saw the light of satisfaction deep behind those steady, unwavering eyes.